


my moral code got jammed

by badritual



Series: Supernatural Codas [15]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Drabble, Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Gen, M/M, Mind Controlled Castiel, Minor Character Death (of the Puppet Deans), Not Beta Read, POV Castiel (Supernatural), POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28233567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badritual/pseuds/badritual
Summary: You already know you’ve failed. You will have to do this again.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Puppet Dean
Series: Supernatural Codas [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/850104
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	my moral code got jammed

**Author's Note:**

> [shows up late to the party with a starbucks latte and a castiel second person POV _goodbye stranger_ coda]
> 
> Title from "Abattoir Blues," by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds.
> 
> This is kind of stream-of-consciousness so there are probably canon errors. Please forgive. Thx.

One time—only once—during your trials, you grab him by the lapels of his coat and pull him in close enough to kiss him. There’s no conscious thought behind it, no tactical advantage to be gained from it since he’s too close for you to slice his throat with your blade. It is a mistake. You can practically see Naomi scribbling it down in her notes—this mistake of yours, this error in judgment—in your mind’s eye. 

You will have to adjust on the fly. She is not happy. Has no patience for spontaneity, for your tendency to make it up as you go. You already know you’ve failed. You will have to do this again.

Naomi’s breath is hot on the back of your neck, and you feel her hand guiding your hand as you draw the blade from your sleeve. It glints even in the dim gloom of the warehouse this grotesque pantomime is playing out in.

“Do it,” she trills. “End him, Castiel. End this now.”

He stares up at you, emerald eyes sharp enough to cut through you. To cut right through flesh and bone to the heart of you. To where he lives, nestled under your breastbone. 

You wish you could turn your blade on yourself, cut him out of you. But you can’t. That is not the assignment you’ve been given. 

“C—Cas,” he stammers, chin wobbling, lips trembling. He grasps your wrist, fingers pressing firmly against your pulse. “Please. Don’t.” 

And you pull him close, closer, close enough that his breath is on your lips as Naomi’s breath is on your neck. 

You duck your head, slide your lips over his and taste his blood. Sharp copper tang, life and death flooding your mouth, and you gag on it. His lips move under yours, pressing back ever so slightly. 

Naomi is still at your back. “Kill him! Now, Castiel.”

The blade is cool in your hand as you angle it down, drag the tip over his wrinkled shirt, searching for the perfect entry point. His mouth is hot on yours, his hand burns your wrist like a brand. You wouldn’t be shocked if you pulled your hand away to find his palmprint seared into your flesh.

You draw a breath, slide the blade between his ribs, and feel his soft gasp of surprise ghost against your mouth. 

He falls limp in your grip. You don’t dare set him on the ground. You cannot make yourself look at him. You keep him close so that you don’t have to see to the damage you’ve done.

“Not good enough. Too much hesitation. And what—whatever _that_ was,” comes Naomi’s voice, hissing and snapping like snakes in your ear. You hear her footsteps retreat behind you, echoing against tile. Lights flare to life over you, sting your eyes and draw tears that you blink away. “Bring in the next one, Armoniel.” 

You gaze down at him, his limp body crumpled in front of you, his beautiful mouth a bloody smear, his once-keen green eyes vacant and glassy. You reach down and draw your fingertips down over his eyes so that you do not have to bear the weight of his dead accusing stare. 

When you finally raise your head, you catch sight of all the other copies of him. All your other failures. 

You feel Naomi’s hand grip your shoulder tightly, tight enough to stagger you to your knees. The knife slips out of your numb fingers and clatters to the tile next to his body. “Let’s begin again.”


End file.
